No Mas

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"It would require a deal of convincing to shake the conviction here that Duran had to be sick or injured because Roberto Duran was not, is not and never could be a quitter."

Red Smith

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The Belfast Telegraph recently published a list of the 10 greatest fighters of all time.

The sixth–greatest fighter, the Telegraph said, was Roberto Duran, and he beat the fifth–greatest fighter of all time, Sugar Ray Leonard, for the welterweight title in Montreal on June 20, 1980.

They met in a rematch in New Orleans on this day in 1980 in what became one of the most famous fights ever. It is known to history as the "No Mas fight" because that is what Duran said to the referee at the end of the eighth round, indicating that he was conceding the fight. In case you aren't fluent in Spanish — and I certainly am not — "no mas" is Spanish for "no more."

After the fight, Duran tried to save some face by insisting that he was suffering from stomach cramps, but I always thought it was because he just couldn't reconcile the Sugar Ray he fought in New Orleans with the fighter he fought in Montreal five months earlier.

It was a moment that really defined both men.

My memory of Leonard is that he was like Muhammad Ali, light on his feet in the ring, always moving. But Leonard, in the face of Duran's prefight taunting, adopted more of a flat–footed style and went toe to toe with Duran in that first fight. He wanted to beat Duran at his own game. He didn't. Duran won by a decision.

Five months later, they met again in New Orleans, and the old Sugar Ray appeared to be back.

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Gone was the plodding flat–footed style. It was like watching an entirely different fighter in the ring, one who looked like that other Sugar Ray Leonard but certainly didn't fight like him.

Apparently Duran was baffled by it as well. He shouldn't have been, though — if he prepared for that first fight by observing footage of Leonard in the ring. That Leonard was back.

Leonard was always the good guy in the equation. Duran was the bad guy, known at one time as the meanest man in boxing. He was said to have knocked out a woman and a horse.

Boxing is a macho sport, and Duran, with his cold, demonic eyes, was the most macho man in boxing 35 years ago. My guess at the time was that Leonard didn't just want to win the fight. He wanted to seize the crown of most macho fighter from Duran as well.

I didn't see either fight in progress; I saw them after the fact, in replays on TV, but what stands out in my mind about that first fight was that, even before it was over, the announcers were talking about how they could see a rematch coming in the final rounds, when Leonard tried desperately to retake ground he lost to Duran in the early rounds — resuming the style with which he had succeeded in the past. But it was too late.

Not long after he lost the fight, Leonard actively pursued a rematch. Duran had been celebrating his victory in New York, partying and overeating. Leonard felt a key to winning the rematch would be to have it as soon as possible — before Duran could lose the celebratory weight he had gained.

Nevertheless, by the time of the fight, both men were in great condition.

Millions of dollars were offered to both fighters for a rematch, and the agreement was reached. The fight would be in the New Orleans Superdome.

Once the fight was in progress, it seemed pretty even — until the seventh round, when Leonard began to openly taunt Duran, and Duran had no answer for it. He seemed lost, and Leonard appeared to be in control.

It was a part of fighting that a lot of people overlook — the psychological fight. Sure you hear people speak about fighters getting inside each other's heads, but I think a lot of people just see that as descriptive speech, allegorical — when it is much more accurate than most people probably want to believe. On this night in 1980, Leonard wasn't toying with Duran. He was implementing part of his strategy, just as he did when he used the bolo punch.

He was turning the tables on Duran, making him the object of the laughter instead of the other way around. For five months, Leonard had felt as if people were snickering at him over his loss to Duran. He wanted to make Duran the object of the ridicule he had been feeling — and probably imagining. I don't recall hearing anyone — in my personal conversations or in boxing programs I saw on television — who thought any less of Leonard for going the distance with Roberto Duran and losing.

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In the eighth round, Duran had had enough. He looked at the referee and said, "No mas."

On this night in 1980, Leonard avenged his loss. Duran couldn't even go the distance. Leonard frustrated him, bewildered him. He got inside his head. It was not allegorical. It was definitely real.

The outcome was unheard of. Boxers just don't quit. They'll let their heads get beaten to mush, and they still won't quit.

Yet the most macho fighter on the planet quit. And when he did, everyone forgot his triumph over Leonard five months earlier. Few people remember it today. If you speak to a boxing fan about Leonard and Duran, the phrase "no mas" comes springing to mind, not images from that night in Montreal.

The Team of the Decade

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Twenty–five years ago today, Joe Montana became the second quarterback to win four Super Bowls.

Terry Bradshaw is the only other quarterback to record that achievement — if Tom Brady beats the Seahawks this Sunday, he will become the third man to do it. And one suspects that Brady will have few, if any, additional chances. This will be his sixth Super Bowl; he will be 38 years old before next season begins.

The quarterbacks who faced each other in Super Bowl XXIV in New Orleans 25 years ago had been to five Super Bowls between them. Montana was 3–0; Denver's John Elway was 0–2.

The 49ers came into the game 12–point favorites. I guess the oddsmakers knew what they were doing because Super Bowl XXIV remains, 25 years later, the most lopsided Super Bowl ever played.

The 49ers never trailed. On their first possession, San Francisco marched 66 yards in 10 plays and scored their first touchdown on a familiar combo — Montana to Jerry Rice. San Francisco led, 7–0.

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The Broncos kicked a field goal when they got the ball back, but San Francisco retaliated with another touchdown — and what was probably the 49ers' only mistake all evening, a botched point–after attempt.

After one quarter, San Francisco led, 13–3. Montana had already thrown two touchdown passes.

The 49ers scored two more touchdowns in the second quarter and took a 27–3 lead to the locker room.

At this point, I ought to mention that I was in graduate school, and I was working at the local newspaper on the sports side. We had an outdoor writer who was, essentially, a freelancer. He brought his copy in to the office on Fridays, and we published it on Sunday.

Anyway, this writer and I were chatting about the game, and he asked me if I would be willing to bet with him. He wanted to take the Broncos. I agreed to bet with him, and I'm sure he thought I was being generous when I told him he could have however many points were being offered; the truth is that I just believed the 49ers could win by a couple of touchdowns. In more than half of their wins all year (and the 49ers were 14–2 during the regular season), the 49ers could have covered a 12–point spread, and they won both of their previous playoff games by more — far more — than 12 points.

So he started with a 12–0 advantage. Obviously, though, that lead evaporated rather quickly. He was just narrowly holding on to the lead at the end of the first quarter, but he couldn't have been encouraged. The Broncos only had five first downs at halftime. By that time, of course, they trailed by 24 points.

The Broncos finally got a touchdown in the third quarter — but it was after the 49ers had added two more touchdowns to their total. It was 41–10 at the end of the third quarter, 55–10 when the final gun sounded.

The 49ers were sharp, precise, not to be denied. Punter Barry Helton only had to kick the ball away four times all day. That is how efficient the 49ers were, scoring on two–thirds of their possessions.

If you looked at the time of possession, though, and did not know the final score, you'd be convinced that Denver won the game. The Broncos held the ball twice as long as the 49ers — but the 49ers scored on long plays, four of their touchdowns coming on gains of 20 yards or more. When you can pick up big chunks of yards like that, time of possession becomes irrelevant. After all, the Broncos only had three gains of 20 yards or more all day, and none resulted in a touchdown.

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Elway was the only Bronco who was really in the 49ers' league. The rest of the team simply didn't have what it took to compete with the 49ers.

San Francisco was the team of the decade. Of that, they left no doubt 25 years ago today.

On that day, it was probably hard to find someone who could conceive of a time when Elway would return to the Super Bowl — and not only play in it but actually win it. In fact, he did return to the Super Bowl eight years later, and he won, beating the Green Bay Packers.

The Day I First Saw Football On a Color TV

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This is a significant date for Kansas City Chiefs fans. It was 45 years ago today that the Chiefs won their only Super Bowl.

So far.

I have a friend who is a Chiefs fan, and he would remind me that the entire history of pro football has not been written — and, like Chicago Cubs fans who insist that one day their beloved Cubbies will return to and win the World Series, he has faith that the Chiefs will return to the Super Bowl and win it.

I am not a Chiefs fan — I'm a Packers fan — but I remember vividly the day the Chiefs beat the Minnesota Vikings in Super Bowl IV. Why? Because it was the first time I ever saw a football game on color TV.

We had a black–and–white TV in our home. It was the TV on which I had watched every football game that I had seen to that point in my young life. No one in my neighborhood (and I use the word neighborhood very loosely here because I grew up in the country, and my neighborhood was hardly a conventional one) had a color TV — until a few days before Super Bowl IV.

Our neighbors (and, again, the word neighbors is used very loosely here; they lived close enough to us that we could walk from our house to theirs instead of driving) bought a Zenith color TV and invited us to watch the game with them. My father is an avid football fan so he accepted the invitation, and we walked over there. It may have snowed. Sometimes we got snow in central Arkansas in January; if it did snow, we trudged through it. No obstacle would keep us from watching a football game in color.

I'm pretty sure the game was played in the afternoon, too. The NFL didn't move Super Bowl kickoffs to the very late afternoon/early evening until several years later. Besides, my mother would never have allowed my brother and me to stay up as late as we would have if the game had been played at night — as it is today.

I remember being astonished by the color of a football game. OK, Super Bowl IV may have been more colorful than most. The Chiefs were dressed in their bright red home jerseys.

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The Vikings wore their road whites, but the uniform still incorporated splashes of the trademark Viking purple — and gold trim.

And the game was played in New Orleans, one of the most colorful cities I have ever visited.

I sat transfixed by the color. I remember looking at my father at one point. The look in his eyes told me we would have a color TV in our house soon, too.

And we did.

That was a time when ownership of a color TV was a real status symbol. It was also a time when networks would announce whether a program was being presented in color. Many in the audience — like my family — still watched black–and–white TVs, and sometimes in those days when a program was being broadcast in color, it had kind of an odd effect on the appearance of the program on black–and–white sets. Believe it or not, people really did call channels to inquire about oddities in picture reception.

Mind you, this was at a time when picture reception was about as imperfect as it could be. It was years before cable took hold, and most customers probably received transmissions via antenna, either of the outdoor variety or the rabbit ears that were on the back of each set.

Consequently, if a customer called because image reception was bad, there must be something to it.

Of course, my parents told my brother and me that the color TV would enhance our enjoyment of educational and cultural programming. I accepted that — not because I particularly believed it but because I knew what had put the hook in my father — the afternoon we spent watching the Super Bowl at the neighbors' house.

It's funny when I think back on the Chiefs' 23–7 victory over the Vikings, who came into the game as 12–point favorites. The Chiefs had been in two of the four Super Bowls and were expected to be in Super Bowl conversations for years to come — but they haven't been back to one since.

The Vikings were making their first Super Bowl appearance and were expected to be contenders in the future, which they were. They went to three more Super Bowls in the next seven years but lost them all and haven't been back to the Super Bowl in 38 years.

In the meantime, ownership of a color TV is no longer a status symbol. Ownership of more exotic variants — high definition, perhaps — are the status symbols now. But virtually all modern TVs are equipped to provide color pictures.

I'm not sure they even make black–and–white TVs anymore.

Muhammad Ali's Third Heavyweight Crown

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Thirty–five years ago today, Muhammad Ali did something no one else has ever done. He won the heavyweight title for the third time.

Seven months earlier, Ali got sloppy and lost his title to Leon Spinks, a newcomer fighting in only his eighth professional fight. The 36–year–old Ali clearly expected an easy time with Spinks, but he wound up losing a 15–round decision.

Ali took the rematch seriously and came into it in much better shape. In many ways, he looked like the Ali of a few years earlier when he won bouts with George Foreman and Joe Frazier.

The Spinks fights were televised in those pre–cable days by one of the networks. That was one of the great things about the years when Ali was the champ. He made boxing accessible to everyone. Before and after Ali's championship years, heavyweight title fights were televised in that era's version of pay–per–view telecasts. They were shown via closed circuit in theaters, and, as I recall, tickets definitely were not cheap (in the financial context of the times).

But Joe Six–Pack could watch heavyweight title fights from the comfort of his own living room — and without paying a penny for the privilege — when Ali was champ.

I didn't get to see Ali lose his title to Spinks in February 1978. It was regarded as a foregone conclusion that Ali would win, and I accepted a social invitation of some kind — and, as a result, missed one of the great upsets in boxing history.

Seven months later, when the two of them met in a rematch, I was in front of the TV watching. I wasn't about to miss it. The Rumble in the Jungle and the Thrilla in Manila get all the attention in the Ali story, but, for me, the fight that took place 35 years ago tonight was the most anticipated fight of my life.

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As I watched the rematch, it was hard for me to believe Ali could have lost to Spinks in that first fight. Ali was sharp. He was crisp. He was in charge of the fight from the beginning.

Long before the final bell sounded, I knew Ali would recapture his title that night — barring some totally unexpected development. Not only did Ali look like he was in charge of the fight, but Spinks appeared hesitant, sluggish, even confused at times. In the later rounds, maybe that confusion was due to all the blows Spinks had taken from Ali. But I could not explain why he was that way in the early rounds.

I thought it was a mismatch. It was hard for me to believe the fight went the distance. True, it resulted in a unanimous decision for Ali, but his age was catching up to him. The Ali of even two years prior would have finished off Spinks in a few rounds, as he did Jean–Pierre Coopman and Richard Dunn (with a 15–round decision over a more highly regarded challenger, Jimmy Young, in between) in a three—month span in 1976.

But, after beating Spinks, Ali went more than two years before unsuccessfully defending his title against Larry Holmes in October 1980.

The Era of Ali was over.